


A Pair of Roses

by berrirose



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Human, First Kiss, France being France, M/M, Roommates, Slow Dancing, Smoking, Texting, UK brothers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-18
Updated: 2016-05-14
Packaged: 2018-03-08 00:29:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 5,584
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3189005
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/berrirose/pseuds/berrirose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of short USUKUS oneshots from my tumblr.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Slow Dance to a Love Song

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Imagine your otp slow-dancing to a love song, and Person A whispering the lyrics into Person B's ear.

Arthur isn’t sure how Alfred managed to get his record player to work - or even how he managed to get the damned old thing running on some open circuit composed of jumper cables, severed wires, something from behind his television, and a car battery - but he’s not about to question it.

“Your priorities during an apocalypse are completely out of line, but I don’t disagree with your song choice,” clicks England with momentary annoyance. “Terribly unfitting for the occasion, however.”

Alfred rolls his eyes and laughs, albeit unsteadily. “I’ve always got great taste, sweetheart.” 

After fiddling with the setup a bit longer and sending a few sparks flying doing  _god knows what_ , the bespectacled man huffs, getting onto his knees and wiping off a sheen of nonexistent dust from his pants - and looking rather proud of himself, Arthur might add.

“How are you feeling?” he asks, sliding the vinyl smoothly out of its practically untouched covering.

“Quite … “ From his chair across the room, Arthur uncrosses his arms. “ … normal, actually.”

America snorts. “And you say  _I_  act weirdly during an apocalypse.”

“We were nations, Ame— _Alfred_.” He catches himself at the last second. “We were practically conditioned to handle death, so feeling indifferent before experiencing it once more isn’t quite as strange as choosing to dance to some wartime song from the late 1940’s as their number one priority.”

The sunny blond pops the record on, blowing off a bit more dust. “You’re right - we  _were_  nations.” After slipping the spindle on, he doesn’t wait a crackle before galloping across the floor and sweeping the once-island-nation onto his feet. “And you were always going on about how humans were off doing naive, crazy things, so why not?”

Feeling everything but saying nothing, Arthur allows himself to be manhandled into standing a breath away from the American, a hand on his waist and the other falling through his fingers. The song begins to play, and he allows himself a smile as he slides his palm over Alfred’s shoulder and leans just a little bit forward as they begin to sway to the beat.

_ They could be human, if only for a while. _

“She was one of your girls, wasn’t she?” Alfred inquires thoughtfully, a careful concentration evident in his voice as he attempts to avoid stepping on Arthur’s toes at all costs. “I couldn’t go a week on one of your fronts without hearing about her at some point.”

“Margaret was a great lady, I’ll have you know.” His chide is effortless, with the same punch Alfred’s gotten use to over the decades. “Fantastic singer, made many men and women happy - or, as closest to it as they could’ve gotten.”

“Hey I’m a pretty good singer myself.” Alfred waggles his eyebrows suggestively, eliciting an eye roll from his partner. He gasps on mock shock, feigning offense. As to prove his point, he breaks into song - swinging Arthur along with equal enthusiasm.  _“With love that’s true, I’ll wait for you. Au—“_

“Wrong song, love,” interrupts Arthur, one part to point out the fact, and ninety-nine parts because the sunny blond’s - rather loud - vocals didn’t do the song currently playing any justice. “I do believe that it’s the next track, however.” He glances out the window over the other’s shoulder. “Not that we’ll have time for it.”

A flash of sadness contorts onto Arthur’s expression at that, but it’s quickly stifled.

_ “—on’t be long. They’ll be happy to know, that as you saw me go, I was singing this song.”  _

The soft baritone of Alfred’s voice beside his ear startles the him. It’s slightly off-key, Arthur notes, and slightly forced as Alfred’s voice toes the barrier between one of a tenor and one of an actual baritone. But none of that matters as the other continues, singing softly into his ear with a gentleness that seemed unbecoming of the young man.

_ “Keep smiling through, just like you always do.” _

And Arthur does smile as he buries his head into the other’s shoulder, swaying lightly. Beyond Alfred’s singing, he could hear the faint patter of rain stringing onto his roof, and the American pulling closer, rubbing circles into his back. Seems like he still hasn’t lost all connections with his land.

They continue to dance for several moments, holding each other close as Alfred sings quietly into Arthur’s ear, cracked glasses nudging against his dirty blond hair. The sun colors the room a dimming orange, and Arthur watches Alfred’s hair turn a bronzen gold in the fading sunlight, fading until the last sliver of sunset sinks below the horizon.

_ “Till the blue skies drive the dark clouds far away.” _

Arthur collapses first. Alfred feels the shock shoot through his system before he too gives way.

They fall into each other - from toes to knees to their chests beating against Arthur’s hardwood floor, twitching fingers still locked loosely together. The sun is completely out now, extinguishing the warmth from the planet beneath it.

Arthur feels the Alfred's free hand brush shakily against the corner of his eye, and only then does he register the tears running down his face.

He feels the burning pain claw away at his feet, crawling up his calves and eating him away to nothingness - and he feels it all being eaten up from him, every second, minute, century of his existence, every sharpened arrow and forest-bound escape, every war and fight that’s lead him onto his knees, pleading, begging for it to all just  _disappear—_

This was all that was left.

“I love you.”

_ (“I don’t want to die.”) _

The sentence is a choked sob, yet Alfred still looks back at him, soft, breathless.

“I love you too.”

_ (“I know.”) _

The room is still, empty save for the swirling motion of a disc being spun somewhere far above their heads. Both of them crack a mangled smile at the other, bleeding themselves white as vinyl scratched out the last line left unsung.

_ “But I know we’ll meet again some sunny day.” _


	2. The Cute Guy From the Flat Next Door

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: “The fire alarm went off at 3 am and now the cute guy from the flat next door is standing next to me in his underwear” AU

Arthur Kirkland was faced with a dilemma.

A tanned, six-foot, half-naked dilemma.

The time is 3:02, and he’s sat on a creaky bench three-or-so blocks away from his apartment, in which a team of exasperated fire fighters were currently disposing of an apparent “science project gone wrong” that managed to devour the entire building in smoke and enough heat to set off a fire alarm somewhere along the way. However, the zombified corpse of a body he’s going to be piloting to work tomorrow is - surprisingly - the _least_ of his worries at the moment.

If Francis was here, and god forbid he ends up doing just that because the damn amphibian seemed to show up _exactly_ when Arthur doesn’t want him to, he’d get a good laugh at the sight of his _petit cheri_ staring intently at the checkered boxes of his pajama pants and twiddling his thumbs as his half-awake American neighbor attempts to not drift off beside him.

_How utterly shameless!_ Arthur screams in his head, sneaking a quick glance at the man next to him who was _very_ much naked despite the pair of star-spangled boxers that managed to retain some semblance of his decency. Honestly, was it really _that_ hard to at least slip on a pair of pants before escaping a “burning” building?

_Vrrr! Vrrr!_

A sudden barrage of vibrations in his pants pocket tells Arthur that he’s forgotten once again to plug his phone in by his nightstand. He digs the infernal contraption - since Francis seemed so adamant on getting him to use the thing in place of his _perfectly fine_ flip phone - out and isn’t surprised when he finds the sender of the texts.

> [Francis | 3:04] I’ve been informed that there’s been a fire in your area. Should I be right in assuming that you’ve used it to your advantage and singed off those disgusting eyebrows of yours?
> 
> [Arthur  | 3:05] Shut your mouth, Frog. My eyebrows are perfectly normal.
> 
> [Francis | 3:05] How disappointing.
> 
> [Francis | 3:06] And here I thought you knew how to seize an opportunity.

He rolls his eyes.

> [Arthur  | 3:07] Go to bed. Princesses need their beauty sleep, don’t they?
> 
> [Francis | 3:08] How considerate of you to be concerned of my dashing appearance, but I’ll have to decline.
> 
> [Francis | 3:08] I wouldn’t want to miss your show, mon ami <3

Arthur, suddenly feeling very conscious about the bare visibility of his surroundings, takes a quick scan of the lamplit street around him. He _couldn’t_ be nearby, right?

> [Francis | 3:10] You won’t be finding me any time soon, Arthur.
> 
> [Arthur  | 3:10] Piss off.
> 
> [Francis | 3:10] So, I see you’ve found yourself beside that dashing neighbor of yours, oui?
> 
> [Arthur  | 3:11] I said piss off.
> 
> [Francis | 3:11] Ohoho~ not denying it, I see? Finally accepted it after all these months, non?

Arthur flushes. He’s been . . . _aware_ of the blond’s presence ever since he moved in last spring from some godforsaken house in the countryside. Their first meeting had been cut short due to a couple of problems (really, who in their right mind answers the door to their new apartment with only a towel wrapped around their hips!?) and their interactions afterward were sporadic and short. 

Sure, he _may_ have lingered around the mailboxes that little bit longer in hope that they’d run into each other, lounged around his balcony around 7:10 sharp to watch the man jog out below him in a pair of earphones and tight-fitting shorts, and frequented a table at their local coffee shop where his neighbor worked part-time. But he was subtle about it, was he not?

Had it _really_ been _that_ obvious?

He sneaks a glance at the American beside him - relieved to find him still struggling to keep awake - and returns to fumbling somewhat clumsily with the keypad of his phone, unsure of what to say.

> [Francis | 3:13] Do not worry, mon ami. I am not here to tease.
> 
> [Francis | 3:13] Your actions these past few months have been embarrassing enough for you.
> 
> [Arthur  | 3:14] What in the world are you talking about, Frog?
> 
> [Francis | 3:15] Tsk. Tsk. Do you not remember our last drink night, Arthur?
> 
> [Francis | 3:15]Your normally unbearable whining to a very . . . interesting turn.

Arthur stares at the screen, mind blank. He remembered having a drink with Francis almost a month ago in celebration of his recent promotion - a tradition they maintained through the years, despite how often they tore at each other’s guts. The frenchman poured him an awfully suspicious amount of drinks that night - not that Arthur’s complaining, alcohol’s hard money to come by these days.

The night had gone on as usual, a few drinks, a couple more, and they began to talk abou—

Oh.

_Oh._

_Fuck._

> [Francis | 3:16]I see you remember, non?
> 
> [Arthur  | 3:17] Francis Bonnefoy, I swear if you do anything stupid I will chop off your prick and shove it up your arsehole first thing tomorrow morning.
> 
> [Francis | 3:18] Ah but your visualizations about your “bloody gorgeous american neighbor” were simply magnifique, Arthur ;)
> 
> [Francis | 3:18] What was it you said around your sixth glass?
> 
> [Arthur  | 3:18] FRANCIS DON’T YOU DARE
> 
> [Francis | 3:18] “I want him to bend me over and fuck me into a desk” was it not?
> 
> [Francis | 3:19] My, I would’ve at least taken him to dinner first.
> 
> [Arthur  | 3:19] SHUT YOUR MOUTH, FROG
> 
> [Francis | 3:19] Did you not also mention something about IKEA furniture?
> 
> [Francis | 3:20] How cultured of you.

“Uh, dude?”

_“What_ is it!?”

Arthur snaps up to meet the blue eyes staring at him.

And all the blood drains from his face.

“When d-did you—“

“Something about a drink night?” he replies, eyes widening a bit at the deathly look of shock that flashed onto Arthur’s face. “Your jolt moved the bench a bit and woke me up - a-and your phone was pretty bright so it caught my attention and—“

“Oh _gods,_ ” Arthur moans, exasperated and desperately wishing that he was _anywhere_ but the very spot he’s in at this very moment. Francis must’ve finally gotten the message, because his phone hasn’t vibrated for a while now. He buries his face in his palms, having intended to keep it that way for a good seven decades or so until hearing the American clear his throat a few seconds later.

“So uh. . .” Alfred begins, averting his gaze somewhere off to the side. “I guess you like me too?”

Before Arthur can sputter out a reply, the phone vibrates in his hands, coming back to life form its idle state with a pale white glow that read:

> [Francis | 3:22] He thinks you are - how you say - really fucking hot.

Wherever the amphibious monstrosity is, Arthur hoped he saw the promise of brutal murder in his eyes being suffocated under fifty shades of utter, undeniable, _humiliation._

“Hey,” Alfred coos, the laced concern in his voice making Arthur want to melt into a pile of goop as a hand pats comfortably on his shoulder, “don’t look so embarrassed. I think you’re pretty hot too.” The hand on his shoulder flinches as Arthur blinks at him. “I-I mean you’re p-pretty cute too - ah, _fuck_ \- like you seem k-kinda nice.”

This time it’s the brit’s turn to stare at him. “T-Thank you . . .  I suppose.”

A pause.

“Uh . . . “ Alfred withdraws his hand, rubbing the palm against the skin of his neck. “So d’you wanna get some coffee sometime after this is all cleared up?”

Arthur ignores the barrage of vibrations from the phone in his hand as he bows his head and chokes out a soft, barely audible “Sure.” And doesn’t get to see Alfred’s reaction beyond the soft chuckle soon after his reply, too busy trying to fight the giddy smile welling its way up to his skin.

For a moment, they sat in comfortable silence, and Arthur’s phone finally, _finally_ stopped vibrating.

“So . . . IKEA furniture, huh?”


	3. Breaking Up a Fight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Because making out with your best friend is definitely the best way to break up a fight, right?
> 
> Allistor = Scotland  
> Rose = (Republic of) Ireland  
> Liam = Northern Ireland  
> Rhys = Wales

The Kirkland household was a downright mess.

Alfred didn’t exactly know what was happening - all he _did_ know was that one moment he was knocking on the door to meet up for an afternoon out, and - after being pulled through the doorway in a spectacularly horror-flick-esque manner - the next he was standing behind a corner as a _very_ distressed Arthur overlooked the onslaught that was his siblings (with the peculiar addition of a lip-cut young man Alfred recognized as their half-brother, Liam) arguing.

It was all very confusing until Arthur’s eyes widened after a silent rumination. He turned to the American with such force that he could almost hear the faint whistle of the air around him.

“Alfred, I need you to kiss me.”

“I . . . _what_?”

“I’m the youngest - he’s _bound_ to forget about Rose and Liam if something happens to me,” explains Arthur, as if he was making any sense at all. They both flinch at an enraged roar from Allistor, something Alfred’s heard only once before. “Quick, Alfred - we don’t need another broken table in this household.” He takes a step towards the American.

And the American takes a step back. “Whoa, _whoa._ ” He places his hands on Arthur’s shoulders - something he regrets almost instantly, but he decides it’s too late to pull back. “Dude, I’m not doing _anything_ until you explain what the heck’s going on here.”

Arthur sighs, pulling away from the grip. “I owe her one.”

“Your sister?”

“No, my grandmother’s ashes - of _course_ my sister.” For a second, Alfred’s almost _glad_ for the short return of Arthur’s annoying-ass sarcasm - _finally_ , something he’s _recognizes_. “Christ, how do you even get dressed in the morning?”

“Not doing a great job convincing me here, Artie.”

“Right, right,” he reminds himself, shaking his head a bit to get himself back together. “Rose and Liam have a date today, and - thanks to their _brilliant_ idea to start snogging in the middle of the living room - Allistor’s just discovered their secret relationship. Essentially, Rose needs help and I need to provide it for her.”

Alfred raises an eyebrow, unsatisfied. “And?”

Running a hand through his hair, Arthur explains further. “So long as she doesn’t say a word to Allistor about me drinking his prized booze that one godforsaken night, I owe her one favor.” He shakes his head, blushing the tiniest bit. “Knowing her, and that receipt I found on the counter two weeks ago, she’s going to force me into one of those ridiculously skimpy angel costumes for your halloween party.”

Though he honestly wouldn’t mind the repercussions, the (strangely familiar) pleading look Arthur currently had on seemed to wear down all his resistance. This isn't how he wanted it to go at all - but, better late than never.

“All right, but only on one condition.”

“Which is?”

“I get to do this again sometime.”

_“Wh—“_

Before he knew it, he was being pushed up against the peony stripes of his living room wallpaper by a pair of (strangely eager) lips. The initial thump of the Englishman’s head was surprisingly loud enough to attract attention from the crowd, and - more importantly - Allistor, who’d promptly turned around to catch his youngest brother be devoured by someone he _thought_ was his _best friend._

The kiss was sloppy, and obviously lacked rehearsed finesse (why his heart seemed to brighten at that, he’ll never know). After the shock wore off, he was pliant in Alfred’s arms - lips, tongue, and teeth futilely attempting to coordinate the whole thing whilst stifling the pyrotechnics that seemed to be firing off in his stomach. God, the whole thing just felt so different and strange and _dynamic—_

It was the best goddamn kiss he’s ever had.

And it ended about as abruptly as it began.

All Arthur knew is that one moment he was being pushed up the wall and pinned, the next he was smacking lips with a patch of very, _very_ empty air. He blinked once, twice, a couple of times (just to get the stars out of his eyes, really) before his attention was caught by a very thankful looking Liam and Rose sneaking their way out the front door, and a mildly unimpressed but relieved Rhys in the corner.

“So, you're going for lil’ Artie now, hmm?” Allistor chuckles, snapping Arthur’s attention to the sight of Alfred shirt-balled against the opposite side of the hallway. “Well my fist here’s just _dying_ for some action too.”

_This was going to be a long afternoon._

“Pucker up, lover boy.”

_A long,_ long _afternoon._


	4. High School AU

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After months of detentions and confiscations, jock Alfred F. Jones confronts the student council president.

He was the kind of boy Alfred would just love to tear apart.

In all aspects, he was the perfect student - smart, punctual, decisive, and well-mannered. He sported a pair of polished leather shoes below a pair of trousers and a white oxford shirt - with the right amount of woolen layers thrown over it for every season. His hair, a mousy brown, was often disheveled, a messy haze thrown over fields of jade green.

Student council president, Arthur Kirkland.

And Alfred wanted nothing more than to tear him down and make him scream for mercy.

In the halls right after lunch, Alfred waits for the tributaries of students to flood into their classrooms like a rock in a stream. Five minutes later - after the last few students come sprinting across the floor with mantras of _“shit”_ and _“I’m late”_ under their breaths - he’s the only one left standing, save for the blond boy across the hall, that is.

“Isn’t it about time for you to get to class, Jones?”

“Isn’t it about time for you get that stick out of your ass, Kirkland?”

The student council president seems to recoil in shock, but Alfred can see the sneer amusement in his eyes. “I’ll have you suspended for such disrespect, to the principal’s office, young man.” He chuckles, a move that somewhat startles the jock. “—Is that what you expected me to say? Did you expect me to go running behind the old geezer and cower behind his power? Lazy slob can’t lift a _pillow_ to save his life.”

_Huh, little pansy isn’t as cowardly as I thought_.

“So, out with it then.” Arthur sighs, exasperated. “What in the world did you spend ten bloody minutes waiting in the hallway like some drug dealer to tell me. In all honesty it’s quite flattering, didn’t know I had a fan.” He smirks, and it makes Alfred’s blood boil.

The American closes the distance between them in long, harsh strides until they’re face-to-face and he can feel Arthur’s exhales plough roughly over his skin. “A fan? You wish, Kirkland.” Alfred chuckles and grabs the other by the shoulders, pushing him up against the lockers. “You know what I’m here for,” he spat. “You know more than anyone else in this _fucking_ school - destroying my bike, my phone, calling me out for _breathing_ the wrong way in class? Don’t think that I don’t know what you’re doing.”

Arthur remains undeterred, not even _flinching_ as his back hit the lockers with a harsh clang - it pays to be a former delinquent. “You couldn’t _possibly_ be suggesting that I’ve been _targeting_ you, could you?” he asks in a tone that matched the one he had when Alfred accused him of destroying his bike - he’d come back to it broken and mangled on the same day he’d been called out by the brit for riding it on campus.

“Save the sarcasm, you little wench.” He lets go of Arthur’s shoulders, slamming a palm on the side of the other’s head. “I’ve got a class to get to so I’ll keep this simple: I wan’t you out of my hair, and out of my sight. Got it, Kirkland?”

Arthur smirks. “You think you’re all powerful, don’t you? Sitting on your egoistic throne all high and mighty like everyone gives a rat’s arse about everything you do,” the Briton muses, eyebrows raised before coming down into a glare so harsh it rivaled that on his own face. “You’re _pathetic._ ”

The jock leans closer, shifting his weight from his outstretched palm to his forearm with a harsh bang from the lockers. “You have no idea what I can do to you,” he growls, piercing into the other’s eyes, breath washing over his face. He grabs the other’s chin, jerking his head up harshly. “So you better shut that pretty little mouth of yours if you know what’s good for you, _Kirkland_.”

Arthur smirks - a challenge.

An invitation.

_“Make me.”_


	5. Sweater Weather

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "You know, I'd tell you to quit if I haven't done it a thousand times already"

When Alfred wakes up, it’s without the warmth of his lover curled up against his chest - and, for him, that simply won’t do.

Getting up proved to be a challenge signified by the strained sound Alfred hisses out right after doing so. Fuck, he probably had knots the size of apples thanks to this cobbled mattress, it was like sleeping on _rocks_ for god's sake!

Making a mental note to get a new mattress once they can forage up enough cash to do so, Alfred slips on his boxers and a plain shirt before setting out to go find his early-rising boyfriend. It shouldn’t take long, considering the size of their apartment - Alfred muses as he trails his fingertips over the peeling paint of the stub of parallel wall he dared to call the hallway between the bedroom and living-room-slash-kitchen.

He find Arthur out on their balcony with an oversized (undoubtably Alfred’s) caramel sweater, a pair of checkered blue briefs, and a cigarette perched between both fingers, and when Alfred takes a glance at the skyline he understands why.

It’s a damp, cloudy day.

Arthur doesn’t react to the sound of him going through the sliding glass door, so Alfred uses the opportunity to sneak up behind the man and slip his arms around the other’s waist from behind, resting his chin on the exposed expanse of freckled skin on Arthur’s shoulder.

The Englishman jolts, but soon relaxes into the hug, petting the golden fuzz of Alfred’s hair with his unoccupied hand and chuckling. “Good morning to you too, Alfred.”

Alfred pecks the skin beneath him, humming. “Artieee, come back to beeed,” he whines, teetering a bit to make up for the puppydog eyes Arthur wouldn’t be able to see him pull off.

Smirking, Arthur takes another puff of his smoke, not seeing the momentary frown on Alfred’s face. “Relax, love, I’ll return to your side as soon as I’m through with this,” he replies.

A second later, he feels the American unwrap his arms and pull away. Arthur turns to meet the expectedly irritated look on his lover’s face. It’s a face he only shows around Arthur. It’s a face that really didn’t suit him.

“It’s a nasty habit, Artie.” His voice it firm, but it falters into a slightly resigned one as he shrugs a quick “You know, I’d tell you to quit if I haven’t done it a thousand times already.”

“It’s a perfectly _fine_ , habit, mind you.” It isn’t. He knows it isn’t. “Besides, it keeps my fingers . . . _occupied_ , per se.”

The reason isn’t nearly good enough for Alfred, who crosses his arms and gives Arthur a look. “There are many . . .  _other_ things you can occupy them with, Artie.” He arches up an eyebrow and Arthur smirks.

“Oh? And what do _you_ suggest I occupy my fingers with, Alfred?” Arthur drawls, uncharacteristically for anyone who didn’t know him as well as Alfred did. 

Waves of smoke rolled out with his words, riding up the American’s nostrils and coating his lungs. It’s bitter.

Alfred steps closer. He flicks the cigarette out from between the other’s bony grasp in favor of replacing it with his own fingers. Wherever the thing lands is none of his concern for now. “ _Me_ , of course.” There’s a flash in the other’s eyes, but he doesn’t allow Arthur a witty reply by sealing those parted lips with his own.

It’s an ordinary kiss for them - Alfred’s hand pushing against the other’s shoulder blade and Arthur tilting his head slightly to lean further into it. It’s the same way they’ve done it countless times before and how it’ll be done countless times again.

Surprisingly, Arthur’s mouth isn’t doused in the foul, bitter taste of smoke. There’s a hint of it, stone-washed by the lingering taste of what seemed to be a palate of black tea. Alfred plays with the thought - a nice, post-rain smoke after a cup of morning tea? How incredibly _Arthur_.

The Englishman groans into the kiss, and Alfred can’t care less about what the rest of the world will think about their (semi-)public display of affection as he bends Arthur slightly over the banister, a hand on the other’s hip and the other tangled in his messy hair.

Alfred feels a pair of wooly arms ride roughly up his bare back, fingers pressing against his shoulder blades. He pushed a little harder, and Arthur makes a soft, breathy noise of approval. At that, Alfred breaks the kiss, moving down the other’s jawline and soon against his neck, making Arthur whimper.

“A-Alfred.” He’s breathless in an instant, probably because of all those damn cigarettes. “You have to—“ Lips. “—nngh - leave for work in an hou—“ Teeth. “— _ouch!_ Not _there_ , you idiot. It’ll sho—“ Tongue. “— _aah . . ._ ”

“Well, I say we slip this sweater off of ya,” breathes Alfred against the junction of Arthur’s bare neck, savoring the tremble of the fingers pressed against his shoulder blades and slowly slipping the sweater’s wide collar further down the curve of Arthur’s freckled shoulder, “and make the most of those sixty minutes.”

Arthur hums, entangling his fingers in his lover’s golden hair and tugging lightly. Alfred stops instantly, blue eyes proceeding to look up with such concern that it melts Arthur’s heart. He shifts, and Alfred feels Arthur’s legs wrap luxuriously around his waist. “Bedroom.”

The puppydog worry in Alfred’s eyes soon simmers into a knowing look as he moves his hands to wrap around Arthur’s waist. “Your wish is my command, sweetheart,” he lilts, eliciting an eye roll from Arthur.

Alfred steps away from the banister with a swoop, minding the headroom as they duck back into the apartment, smothering each other in butterfly kisses and feather touches. Arthur’s almost impressed by how easily Alfred carries him, arms secure around his waist as the brit strains his neck to plant more kisses along the bridge of the other’s forehead.

“Three times in - _mm_ \- two months,” Arthur muses, back to his previous state of breathlessness as Alfred somehow manages to maneuver through the apartment flawlessly and flop them down into the sheets. “Your b-boss will be furious.”

“Then let her be.”

“The neighbors will complain.”

“Then let them.”

“I’m not good for you, Alfred.”

And he wasn’t, Alfred was very aware of that. Thirteen months after they got together - and an hour after it got out - Alfred was disowned. Two months later, he (expectedly) dropped out of college. Two years later, they were working part-time jobs with overdue rent and a sleezy apartment.

Arthur Kirkland was going to be the death of him.

And he’ll let him be.

Because if Arthur’s addiction was the rush of nicotine through his withering veins, then Alfred’s addiction was unavoidably, undoubtedly _Arthur_.

_“I don’t care.”_

Outside, it starts to pour.


	6. Title and Registration

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While clearing out some of his files for a new game, Alfred finds a folder filled with things he’s tried to forget. ME!ME!ME! inspired.

Picture after picture pans out before him - every swipe of his finger opening up an old moment, an old memory - a point in time where he remembers being _happy,_ a point in time when everything was colorful and bright, a point in time before–

“And just _what_  do you think you’re doing?”

( _on the road.jpg_ \- Taken on their road trip to Disney World. Arthur kept complaining about Alfred’s song playlist but he ended up singing along anyway.)

Alfred pointedly ignores the presence behind him. “Looking through photos - what does it _look_  like I’m doing?”

“Now that wouldn’t be a problem,” he begins, and Alfred can hear his foot tapping against the wooden floor, “if they weren’t pictures of _him.”_

( _sleeping beauty_03.jpg_ \- A photo Alfred snapped with his phone while Arthur was still jet-lagged. Arthur told him to delete it. Alfred said he did.)

“So what?” Alfred bites back. “It’s not like you can tell me what to do.”

( _birthdayboy.jpg_  - A screenshot of Arthur’s reaction to the cake and balloons he showed him over a Skype call. He said that just a greeting would’ve been fine. Alfred said he deserved more than just fine.)

“You’ve looked at enough now, love.” Alfred can’t help the way his stomach flips at the nickname. “It’s time to close the folder.”

(late0704.jpg - A screenshot of their Skype call on their late celebration of Alfred’s birthday. Arthur apologized for not having time to buy him a cake because of work. He never had time for hi– )

“ _Alfred._ ”

Two hands come to rest on his shoulders, sliding until their wrists cross each other over Alfred’s torso as his own name is whispered into his ear in a voice that’s exactly like _his_  only that it’s _not_  because he’s _gone_  now, he’s gone and he’s never coming back–

“Alfred,” coos Arthur’s voice right by his ear, and Alfred suppresses the shivers that threaten to roll down his spine. “You’re hurting yourself with this.”

The American swallows, fingers still hovering over the trackpad. He swipes once.

( _screenshot_0717.jpg_ \- An accidental screenshot of their Skype call. Arthur’s head was barely visible as he’s hunched over the desk with some paperwork. Alfred had Physics notes in the foreground.)

“Alfred, _please_.”

( _screenshot_0922.jpg_  - Their anniversary Skype call. Neither of them had anything prepared. Arthur’s smiling in this one.)

“I just want what’s _best_  for you–”

( _No more photos in this gallery.)_

 _“How would_ you _know what’s best for me?”_ roars Alfred with such volume that those arms immediately shoot up from their previous position, his shoulders now bare and cold. “You’re not _him.”_ He gets up from his seat and turns. “You’re just–”

Alfred freezes.

He looks like him. He looks like _him_  so much it makes his head spin. Nothing’s changed - his chartreuse eyes, his freckles pale skin, his pink lips, his soft frown, his thick eyebrows, his slim body and his old sense of style - not a single thing.

He’s the perfect embodiment of _him_  - everything Alfred always remembered about him, everything Alfred always loved about him, everything Alfred could never touch or hold–

Feeling woozy, Alfred turns back and collapses into his office chair.

He feels hands return to his shoulders and breaths run over the shell of his ear, and this time nothing’s left to stop those shudders from crawling down his spine.

“You’re right, I’m not him.” The acceptance sounds like one of defeat, but his tone is almost predatory. The hands on his shoulders begin to rub in small, soothing circles, and Alfred sinks even further. “But just _who_  was it that kept you company when you needed someone there for you?”

“…You.”

“Who was it that was always there for you - right by your side whenever you needed it?” 

He bites his lip. “You.”

“ _Who_ was it that filled your thoughts every night he wasn’t there with you?”

Alfred doesn’t answer this time. He doesn’t need to answer.

Arthur smirks. One of his hands moves down from the American’s shoulder. “So why don’t you forget about that old fool.” His palms glide along the length of his torso. “And just think about me.”

Lower.

“Me.”

_Lower._

“ _Me.”_


End file.
